


In the Aftermath of Goodbye.

by thelittleone (beautybedamned)



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Ten Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-02
Updated: 2009-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 14:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautybedamned/pseuds/thelittleone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He goes to confession on Thursday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Aftermath of Goodbye.

**Author's Note:**

> Christmas/New Year Gift Fiction for Bhex/dreamlessness [LJ].

“Not in all,” he whispered with a smile. “Time forks, perpetually, into countless futures.  
In one of them, I am your enemy.”

\- from Jorge Luis Borges’ _The Garden of Forking Paths_

 

He goes to confession on Thursday.

It is late and the church is empty save for an old lady and a little girl in the front pew. Both figures are hushed, their eyes closed in prayer while the shadow of a small boy ducks discreetly off into a far off corridor; the unintended chime of the sacristy bell makes him tense even as he slips into the dark, claustrophobic space of that little box of forgiveness.

When he finishes some twenty minutes later, he exits quietly. His shoulders are hunched and his hands are deep in his pockets as he ducks under the looming archway to step past the doors and breathe in the air outside.

He thinks quietly on how the priest was lenient, giving him only prayers to speak over the course of two weeks and a light chide to try to avoid any more lies. When he turns his eyes up, he notes the way that night has yet to engulf the sky.

He takes a moment to pause on the steps, to watch the way the clouds remind him of white flowers backlit by the glow of dying fire. How the deep, deep blue blanket of evening is much lighter at the ends than where it starts over on the edge of the far horizon.

When movement catches on the corner of his eye, he straightens and his footfalls are light over the stone steps as he slides into the cool interior of the limo that has been sent to pick him up.

 

He is no longer sure of the details, but he remembers that it began a week after he finally returned to his rightful time, the night the Vongola from ten years before bid their goodbyes to a future they would try to amend, to change.

He’d known that the moment his vision focused on the wall on the east wing of the manor, the detail on the wood seeming so new at the time since he’d never really taken much time to stare at them for long before that. He’d known then that there would be no more trips back in time. That though his younger self might try to use that ridiculous contraption of a bazooka, that there would be no more exchanges, no more smiling down at a young Sawada Tsunayoshi or nodding at a young Gokudera Hayato before promptly running off to flee from the younger version of Gokudera’s older sister.

No more, no, none; he would have to live now without his onii-san, because that American comic book company had gotten it right in the way Borges had – that you might be permitted to go back in time to change the course of what hadn’t happened just yet, in order to avoid a future where you or where your loved ones die, but that the future that already is will continue.

He recalls that one night, that night one week later, when he had gone out to the balcony, his personal guard dismissed at a word that he wanted to be left alone, that he was perfectly capable and safe within Vongola grounds.

He had walked out to see her leaning against the stone rail, strands of her hair falling across her face, drawing his eyes to where her lips were thin line, all serious and maybe just a touch sad. He could never tell.

He had said nothing at first, had merely leaned back against the far wall, aware that she needed the silence as much as he. When he did, finally, he had asked: “Are you alright?” well-aware that she might not answer. He had already heard from the others how Reborn had asked her to let him go; how the assassin, still in that child-form of his, had asked Bianchi to sit, to listen and to understand.

“What do we do now?” Lambo ventured again, moving from his place by the wall to a spot by her side, one hand reaching out before he could convince himself to do otherwise – to brush her hair from her shoulder. His finger lingered a little on the tips as she turned her face to him, a tremble in her voice:

“We go on. It’s what we do.”

 

He recalls the first time he managed to make her smile. How the elders had arrived to see him fretting over a failed attempt in the kitchen, the stove shot black from too much of something he couldn’t quite understand. While Bianchi had surveyed the damage, he had hung his head and Gokudera had pulled up a chair, the legs of it scraping across the floor in time with the tirade of scolding that befitted a particularly fretful mother.

The lecture had been brief, really, given that the silver-haired man could go on and on and on if he felt like it, but Lambo hadn’t minded at all. It had been a long, long time since he’d seen any sort of life shining in Gokudera’s eyes and it had warmed his heart to hear the older man finally say “Tsuna” and stammer and change it to “Tenth” without his voice dipping into that familiar heavy-hearted sigh. To hear him include the anecdote of Tsuna’s own first attempt of putting together a midnight snack that first night they had all relocated to the Italy house, finally adding “So, what is the moral of this story, hm, Lambo?” and to which he could only reply: “That I should never try to cook?”

“Good boy.” Gokudera had snorted back, the last of the gauze finally secured by medical tape before he rose to leave and join the chuckling Yamamoto who reached over to pat Lambo affectionately on the head.

But there was that one other thing. That glimpse of Bianchi while Gokudera had lectured and applied the salve, had wrapped his fingers in bandages. Lambo had snuck one look up to see the Italian woman running her thumb gently over the edge of the stove and later, when she set down an edible and far from lethal dinner (years and years of Tsuna pleading with her, reasoning “How can we be a powerful Mafia family if we can’t even sit down to a meal without fearing for our lives?” had finally sunk in), she had murmured to him that next time, if he wanted food, he should just leave it up to her.

 

The first time they had made love (because Bianchi would not call it anything else but that), it had been the result of too much wine on his part and the others heading off to bed; leaving the two of them in the large living room, reminiscing over their exploits from years before.

“I swear, I thought I-pin would pull me limb from limb – you didn’t dismiss threats from her when she said them with a smile.”

“It was your fault.” Bianchi had sipped a little from her wine, the red of it leaving a faint tint on her lips. “Those dumplings weren’t for you.”

“I suppose no one would believe it if I plead lack of foresight due to hunger? What was I to do? I’d spent the entire day without food.”

“Only because you hadn’t had the sense to remember not to point guns at people—”

“But it wasn’t even loaded!”

“Lambo, you just never point a gun at people – fake or no, loaded or no. Never.” He recalled how she’d set the glass aside, leaning slightly forward towards the coffee table. The dip of her blouse had been provocatively low, though nothing unusual since she’d always worn clothes that flattered her figure.

He must have let his gaze linger too long, or maybe it was that he’d taken to noticing her more than he’d ever had before, but she’d crossed to him with a smile that made him shiver – both in fear and delight.

“Kiss me, go on.” She’d whispered, her leg coming to drape over his while one hand walked its fingers up his forearm and the other smoothed the collar of his shirt.

The air had seemed thin then, and his face hot from the wine. And he was very, very sure that she had known well enough just how much she’d affected him, but next he knew she had pulled away and only the click of her heels on the floor as she strode out of the living room and down the hall leading to her room.

He’d recovered about two hours later, finally acknowledging that no, he wasn’t getting anywhere by himself; that when he’d tried to fantasize and relieve himself promising that he’d never think such thoughts of her again it wasn’t quite working and that he was only torturing himself – Lambo found himself knocking hesitantly on her door.

He’d kept his eyes on her face when she’d opened the door a crack, the bare flesh of her shoulder catching on his periphery.

“Lambo, it’s lat—”

“Please, don’t—” He’d pushed the door open with more force and confidence than he really had in him. Had slipped inside with one fluid motion and had pulled her close, his fingers a little heavy on her wrist, his palms clammy and his body clumsy though he’d known a touch of a woman before.

The kiss had been awkward, to say the least, but he supposed it had been need that had made them finally get the rhythm right and next he knew she’d turned the tables, pinning him under her on the bed, her nakedness a stark contrast to him and his flannel pajama set.

She hadn’t allowed him to undress right away, had made him marvel at the way the wait had made it so much sweeter in the end – her eyes half-mast and her lips parted with want as he moved inside her. He’d trailed kisses on her palms, had traced the faint calluses on the inside of her palm all the while remembering days long ago where he’d spent days as a student learning and honing the precision of a gun.

On the second round she had taken control, her tongue working wonders while he stared up, a little confused as to why there was a mirror on the ceiling above her bed, blushing intensely when he grasped a possible reason of why just as she finally settled astride his hips.

Glimpsing the two of them in the throes of such passion affected him so much, became something of an addiction that after awhile he’d managed to convince her to come to his room instead. His heart wasn’t quite ready to see so much, to deal with the fascination of watching while doing, but he’d convinced her by saying that the mirror was a distraction, that he would much rather look at her when he came so that at least, when he uttered her name, strangled, he would be sincere.

 

 _Bless me father, for I have sinned. My last confession was a month ago._

He arrives home to an empty house. No doubt the others have gone to visit Hibari or perhaps even the Varia, as it is Thursday and Yamamoto and Squalo make it a point to test each other on this particular day of the week. He strides to the kitchen first, expecting to see her at the stove, but only the remains of someone’s snack is at the breakfast nook, and Gokudera’s cat is dozing in the corner.

 _Go on, my son._

He turns away then, intent on finding her in her room, possibly resting, when he slows his step having glimpsed her on that balcony.

He waits awhile and watches, notes the goblet in her hand, the spread of cheese samples and wine bottles on the nearby table. The way her hair is brushed back into a side-ponytail, the glimmer of crystal on her hair tie as the late afternoon wind smoothes the fine fabric of her dress along the curves over her body intimately, like a lover.

“They called.” Bianchi tells him, clearly having noticed his presence. “They said we’d catch the late mass. Hayato didn’t want to wait for them, but apparently today’s little duel has turned a mite bloodthirsty and you know how interesting that gets.”

He leans sideways against the frame and smiles, prompting her to frown and ask, “Yes?” which makes him crook his finger at her.

She tilts her head, intrigued. “Finally mastered that look?” But she comes over anyway.

“I came from confession.”

“Good.” She offers him a sip. “It’s nice to know we raised you well.”

“Bianchi, I love you.”

“And I you,”

“No.” He presses his lips lightly against hers. “I love you.”

When her eyes soften, he knows she understands. “Not afraid of my brother’s bluster anymore?”

“Nope,” and he cups the back of her neck, tilts her chin up so he can taste the flavor of her: red wine, woman, strong and rich.

**Author's Note:**

> First posted: http://paper-sailboats.livejournal.com/12125.html#cutid1


End file.
